


Just Like Every Other Day

by NoraPenblood (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, a bit of mindfuckery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-23 15:41:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/623781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/NoraPenblood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had become used to a certain cycle of things. Or so he thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Like Every Other Day

“Morning to you too, Sherlock.” John replied. He had a nagging feeling in the back of his head that something was off, but he ignored it as best he could. He flipped open the paper, scanning over the headline. In bold newsprint it read “FAKE DETECTIVE COMMITS SUICIDE, GRIEVING LOVER FOUND DEAD IN HOME”. John frowned. Always such grim headlines these days. “Have you read the paper today, Sherl?” He called conversationally to his lover as Sherlock strode into the living room. 

Sherlock perched himself on the arm of John’s chair, reading over his shoulder. “Hm. I always thought there was something funny about- John. Please. Wake up.” His tone never wavered and he ran the hand that wasn’t holding a piece of toast softly through John’s hair. 

John nodded, “Yeah, you were always talking about that. Shame though. I thought he was quite bright. Bit handsome too.” He stuck his tongue out at the taller man, teasing. Sherlock rolled his eyes and moved to his own chair. 

John felt the first dull ache of a migraine stirring in the back of his head, the same migraine that seemed to have begun at this same time every day for as long as he could recall. “My head hurts, Sherlock.” He said softly, the words forming of their own volition. He couldn’t remember saying them, or moving his mouth, but they hung in the room, echoing off the walls. 

Sherlock turned to look at him and his eyes were too wide. They seemed to glow as if someone had lit a fire inside his head. John stared at him and he stared back, neither moving or speaking. As John watched, frozen with dread, blood began to trickle down the side of Sherlock’s face, pooling and growing, matting in those perfect curls. His jaw went lax, the light blinking out and dying as surely as it had appeared and he sagged backward in the chair. The toast in his hand fell to the floor with an odd, soft sound. 

The sound echoed and grew, becoming the dull roar of a far-off machine. The whole room seemed to warp, fading and stretching as Sherlock drew further and further away, ever dimmer. A scream was torn from John’s lips as the room melted away, becoming blinding white light. The light was everywhere, surrounding everything and in the background a dull beeping accentuated by the sharp pain in his skull. He felt something semi-soft beneath him, something cold and sterile. 

Slowly, slowly, the light dimmed until he could see. There was a man in hospital scrubs standing over him, a concerned smile stretching the tight lines of his face. “John? It’s alright, it’s alright.” He was saying, but John couldn’t hear because someone was screaming, screaming so loud and so long that the mournful wails seemed to be in his head. Slowly, slower than he’d become able to see, he realized he was the one screaming. It took him longer then to stop, and he only stopped when he recognized the other face in the room. Sherlock. His Sherlock, face a mess of worry and glee, standing over him, shoving the doctor out of the way. 

Cold fingers were on his face, caressing his cheeks, smearing the tears he hadn’t known he was crying. Calming him, soothing him. Bringing him back. “Sh-Sh-Sherl...Sherlock?” His voice was broken and creaky, as if he’d forgotten how to use it. 

Sherlock smiled and it was just the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He wanted to ask what had happened, he wanted to know why he was in a hospital and why his head hurt so badly and why he couldn’t feel anything below his waist, but all he could manage was Sherlock’s name, over and over. Sherlock held him best he could without moving him too much, holding him and caressing his face and kissing his cheeks and murmuring that he was there. 

John managed to calm down after what felt like hours of lying there, sobbing into Sherlock’s chest. “W-what... What’s happened?” He asked softly, tone still broken and soft. 

Sherlock frowned, face set with worry. Slowly, and he hated himself for it but it had to be done, he was putting his walls back up. Becoming the same distant machine he’d always been. “You attempted to kill yourself upon finding out that I-” He coughed, looking over his shoulder at the doctor. “That Sherlock was dead.” He said finally, clinically, giving John a look that begged his agreement without question. 

John frowned, the world spinning. He couldn’t remember anything except breakfast, sitting down at the bar and pushing aside several test tubes for his morning toast and jam. He could remember Sherlock striding in, all long legs and wrapped in his sheet, making some snide remark about something and then it all sort of... whited out. “I don’t... Sherlock... I... You... What’s going on...” 

Sherlock looked immensely sad before he snapped the shield back on, (Alone is what I have, alone protects me.) and reached across to the table, showing John the paper. Across the top was a headline reading “ FAKE DETECTIVE COMMITS SUICIDE, COMPANION FOUND IN CRITICAL CONDITION”. 

John shook his head, the movement sending shocks of pain down his spine and through his skull. “No... That’s not...” He read the words below the picture of Sherlock lying on the ground side-by-side with his own picture. In the picture of himself he was lying on his back on the hospital bed, bandages wrapped around his head, blood staining them pink at the edges. The words below read “John Watson, famed blogger for the fraud was found in his flat by his landlady, bleeding from the skull, pistol in hand. It is speculated he attempted to shoot himself, but the tremor in his hand must’ve set the bullet off course at the last second.” John swallowed and shut his eyes. The room seemed to be pulsing with the pain in his head, his breathing fast and shallow. 

Sherlock patted him on the shoulder, standing and straightening his shirt. “Well, John, I really have to go now. I’m so, so sorry.” He gave him a pained look and nodded. Before he left he dipped down and pressed a soft kiss to John’s lips. He whispered two words and was gone, leaving John damaged, confused, but for all the world, better off. 

“Three years.”


End file.
